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Ephemeral Delusion

Sunday, August 30, 2009, 3:42 AM

i can't do it?

I totally feel that I should write this down, to remind and shame myself how cowardice kills; or rather killed me. Out of all the days and nights that I dream, those things that I’ve watched and how inspiring they were, all down the drain, gone to an awful waste. Perhaps it is true - perhaps I shouldn’t blame it all on that culture, social or demographics variations, none of those external factors are to receive my senseless rambling; but rather a simple reason: the id is not strong enough.

“My dear id, it is time to fight the superego and convince the ego so.”

Drinks spilling, soles trampling on toes, elbows and fingers flying, these are not as exciting as dirty pole dancing- a makeshift pole actually. As the loud noise threatens to rip my ear drums apart, the sly fellows in the pink bottles were doing a good job in hyping up the atmosphere, barging straight into my adrenal glands and dragging the adrenalines out to play. The raving heat rush, so intense yet slow, my eyes were glued to the stage at first, before I got blown off by what was happening under my nose: how did you get so fly? Didn’t it feel like a movie scene? Didn’t it feel like a pre-arranged take-3 shoot? My throat crackles, trying to get my initials across to the boys, smirking quietly how their expression is selling them out. It is hard fighting the temptation, is it not? Or were they bound by moral obligations? There is no such obligations silly; there is only an unwritten consensual rule- have no qualms when offered, or there won’t be a second chance.

How funny when I found out they weren’t apparently worth too much of my efforts, when there is something else to put my restlessness to use. That temporal segregation of my world with reality brings people to cloud nine, how music, noises and smell got reduced to the minimal gradually and finally muted, the floor starts spinning and everyone turns into mere black shadow, there was it, the pole and the stripper. The stripper could do the fucking dancing very well, well so can the pole. Lights flashing, more touching, the pole got low, and so did stripper. Doesn’t everyone love the show? This isn’t their main concern; they were waiting for more. My eyes were darting around, in guilt, in shame, with insecurities? Only that plastic smile is real, and so are the smoothing finger tips. Groove, groove and groove. Glide, glide and glide. Ultimately no matter how you might have imagined it to be, the DJ turning up the reality volume will blast your ears awake the next second or third.

“I can’t do this.”

When I reckoned myself sober, my chastity clear senses finally started talking. To begin with, it wasn’t an impossible situation. Somehow in an ironic way, I felt reassured when I divulged (intentionally perhaps) too much unwanted signals to the stupid white. It was a good feeling, to know that my magnets still worked. The last words would probably be how should I shift the pointing arrows in my magnet, so they could be uniformed and clear, because no normal being should be bestowed such insanity at all. A little mice’s voice squeaks, fred not, you still have time- a long way to go. Until that day, my inspirations can then be elevated, from fiction to non-fiction perhaps. I’ve got faith in myself, do you?

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